


One Kiss Can Lead to Another

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: A Lot of First Kisses, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of responses to <a href="http://pluckyredhead.tumblr.com/post/129258381999/kiss-meme">this kiss meme</a>, reposted from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. kiss on the neck

Matt might have been the terror of Hell’s Kitchen’s underworld, but he was still a giggly-ass drunk. He clung helplessly to Foggy as they stumbled their way up the stairs to Matt’s apartment. “Foggy. Foggy. _Foggy_.”

“What?” Foggy asked finally, biting back a laugh. Sure, he was drunk too, but Matt was _plastered_. And fair enough - they’d won the shit out of their latest case, enough to justify another three rounds after they’d put a tipsy Karen in a cab and sent her home.

“I’m drunk,” Matt informed Foggy, hazel eyes staring blankly in his direction. Foggy had tucked Matt’s glasses safely into his pocket after they’d fallen off for the third time. Matt’s eyes were luminous in the light of the billboard outside, which beamed through the hallway window as well as Matt’s living room, and his eyelashes were some kind of ridiculous for a guy as good at punching as Matt was.

“You are? Goodness me, Mr. Murdock, what will the nuns think?”

Matt laughed, then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning forward to touch his forehead to Foggy’s. “Most of ‘em snuck wine on the sly. They thought I didn’t know but I could smell it on them.”

“There goes my last bit of faith in the church,” Foggy said. “Where are your keys?”

Matt thrust his left hip at Foggy. “Pocket.”

Lord give him strength. Foggy slipped a hand into Matt’s pocket, feeling for the keys against that _insanely_ muscled thigh, and Matt snorted. “Fresh,” he teased.

“You started it,” was all Foggy’s drunk and Matt’s-thigh-addled brain could come up with.

He emerged triumphantly with the keys and unlocked the door, and they staggered in. Despite having reached home safely, Matt didn’t unwrap his arms from around Foggy. “Okay, buddy, you can untangle yourself now, and I’ll go get you a glass of water,” Foggy said.

Matt shook his head, his hair brushing Foggy’s cheek. “’M cold. You’re warm.”

“Bed’s warm too,” Foggy said, and Matt pulled back enough to give him a surprised look. Foggy felt his cheeks heating up. “I mean, you should go to it. Get some sleep. I’ll, uh, I’ll go home.”

Matt tucked his head back into the curve of Foggy’s shoulder. “Stay.”

“I’m not sleeping on your couch, Murdock, that billboard will illuminate my nightmares.”

“Bed’s big enough for two.”

And okay, it was probably just Foggy’s imagination that made him think that offer was anything more than platonic.

…But it _wasn’t_ his imagination conjuring up Matt’s lips hot against his throat. “Uh, Matty…?”

“You’re warm,” was all Matt said, and yawned hugely into Foggy’s jaw. Well. Thanks for the explanation, Matty.

“Okay,” Foggy said finally. “I’ll stay. _If_ you drink a whole glass of water and go right to sleep.”

Matt nodded obediently and kissed Foggy’s neck again. Foggy resolutely ignored everything that awoke in him and steered Matt towards the bedroom, where of course Matt immediately began stripping because he was trying to give Foggy a _heart attack_.

“I’m just, uh, gonna get that water,” Foggy said, and fled to the kitchen. “And tomorrow,” he added quietly as he filled a glass from the sink, knowing Matt would still be able to hear him, “we are going to talk about… _this_.”

But for now, it could wait.


	2. giggly kiss

“Hee hee hee.”

“Okay, you can stop laughing now, Foggy.”

“No, I - ahaha - I really can’t.”

“It’s not that funny!”

“Are you kidding? It - you actually - he - ”

Foggy dissolved into laughter again, kneeling on the couch next to Matt, the ice pack he’d been pressing to the crown of Matt’s head lowering as he doubled over. Matt scowled vaguely in his direction, and he was probably going to hell for it, but Matt’s irritated, ruffled expression just made Foggy laugh harder.

“You know, you used to be upset when I got hurt,” Matt pointed out.

“It’s - hee hee - it’s a goose egg, Matty,” Foggy managed. “You’re fine. After your thrilling battle with…with… _Stilt-Man!_ ”

And he lost it again.

“He was robbing a bank, Foggy. He’s a criminal.”

“A criminal named _Stilt-Man!_ ”

Matt’s lips twitched and Foggy grinned. “Come on. Let it out, buddy.”

“It’s not funny,” Matt insisted again. “It’s…he…I don’t…” His lips twitched again, and then he was laughing too, head tipped back in that full-throated, goofy laugh Foggy loved. “Ow!” he said as the bump on his head brushed the back of the couch, but he was still laughing as Foggy quickly moved to reapply the ice.

“Poor conquering hero,” Foggy said. Matt winced through his laughter as the ice pack made contact, and Foggy kissed the spot next to his hand before he caught himself.

But Matt just grinned and caught the fingers of Foggy’s free hand in his. “What would I do without your tender ministrations?” he asked, and kissed Foggy’s knuckles.

He was still chuckling softly, so Foggy didn’t let his heart leap more than it absolutely had to; didn’t let himself read anything into that besides Matt being constitutionally incapable of not flirting with everyone in reach, and punch drunk besides. “Maybe you could ask Stilt-Man instead,” he suggested.

“I like you better,” Matt said, callused thumb stroking over the back of Foggy’s hand, and then he tilted his head like he was listening to something, and his eyebrows went up. “Hey, Foggy?”

“Yeah?”

“Your heart is racing,” he said, and kissed Foggy on the mouth.

Foggy stared as Matt pulled back. Matt still looked amused, but there was uncertainty behind it. Oh, _Matt._

“Don’t think this means I’m going to stop making fun of you over freaking _Stilt-Man_ ,” Foggy said finally.

Matt was still laughing when Foggy kissed him back.


	3. "good morning sunshine" kiss

Matt usually woke with a headache, teeth gritted and face scrunched up against the noise he was trying to keep from pushing its way into his brain.

He usually woke with his muscles cramped and aching from twisting himself into the smallest knot he could, as if showing his spine to the world could keep it at bay.

He usually woke to the dull throb of old injuries, to pain lancing through him in burning stripes whenever he moved too quickly or too ambitiously.

Today was different.

He came awake slowly, conscious of a steady, repetitive sound against his ear. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear, and close, and even though it took him a while to place it, it was comforting.

Then he shifted, stretched against bare legs, and realized that his head was pillowed on Foggy’s chest, and the sound was Foggy’s heartbeat.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Foggy said, and under the scratchiness in his voice Matt could hear his smile.

Right. Last night came back to him abruptly: a garbled, accidental confession…a heart-stopping moment of terror…and then Foggy’s mouth, and his _hands_ , and the bedroom, and…

Matt felt his ears go hot as he remembered some of the things he’d said, and he pushed his cheek into the warm, welcoming softness of Foggy’s chest. “Morning,” he said, a bit muffled.

Foggy’s hand was in his hair. “You feeling okay?”

Matt took stock. He was warm, and insulated from the invasive sounds by Foggy’s heartbeat, and his breathing, and the shift of his hair against the pillow. He was a bit sore, he discovered as he stretched, but in a much pleasanter way than usual. And the smell of Foggy in the morning, a little sweaty but clean and uncomplicated by clothing or food or grooming products, familiar from their years living together, was even better up close.

He shifted, turning his head so he could smile at Foggy; the smile deepened when he heard Foggy’s heart pick up a step from its lazy beat. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m feeling okay.”

He leaned forward and Foggy stopped him with a gentle palm to his face. “Not that I’m not game for this, but as you can probably tell, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet, and I don’t think you want to subject your super tastebuds to that.”

Matt bit lightly at Foggy’s palm, and Foggy laughed and drew it away. Matt shifted forward again, closing the gap between them. “I think I’ll manage.”


	4. spin the bottle kiss

Marci’s eyes sparkled over the empty beer bottle she’d plucked from Foggy’s hand. “You know what we should do?”

“Start a jug band?” Foggy asked, and Marci gave him the kind of huffy little hair toss that meant that she was acting annoyed, but willing to flip the switch on their on-off relationship back to the “on” position if he played his cards right.

The problem was, Foggy wasn’t sure what kind of hand he was working with tonight. Every time he tried to figure it out, Matt laughed or bumped into him or made that little clutching motion at Foggy’s shirt, right at the small of his back, that meant he was tipsily orienting himself, and Foggy’s cards scattered to the wind. Even now, he was pressed next to Foggy on the couch, sharp elbow digging into Foggy’s thigh just this side of uncomfortable as he leaned forward, and it made hard to focus on flirting with Marci.

The _problem_ was Matt, and always had been.

“ _No_ , Franklin.” Marci set the bottle on the coffee table and gave it a little spin.

“What?” Matt asked.

“Spin the bottle?” Foggy asked. “Isn’t that a little high school, Marce?”

“No, let’s do it!” said Marci’s friend - Julie? - with an eager little clap of her hands. Plus, Foggy couldn’t help noticing, a little sidelong glance at Matt. _Well._

A few other girls chimed in in agreement, and then two guys whose frat house this was, and some dude Foggy was pretty sure was _actually_ still in high school, and Marci shrugged at Foggy and shot him a triumphant grin. “Looks like you’re outvoted, Nelson.”

They were hustled off the couch and the frat guys moved the coffee table out of the way so that they could all sit in a circle. Matt stayed closed to Foggy’s side, knee bumping Foggy’s when they landed cross-legged next to each other. He leaned in, his breath warm on Foggy’s ear. “How bad is this going to be?”

Foggy leaned in as well, conspiratorial. “That depends. How much do you want to kiss the QB?”

“He’s not at the top of my list of people in this room, no,” Matt said with a smile that was a little too relaxed to be properly wry. Foggy heroically kept his fingers from tracing it.

This was good. It was _good_. He’d managed to get Matt out of their dorm room or the library and into a party, and Matt actually looked like he was having a good time, instead of like he was quietly battling a headache. He was a few drinks in - not enough to be the hilarious falling-down drunk Foggy knew he could be at times, but enough to be more affectionate than usual. Smiley. _Handsy._

Which was fine. Foggy was _fine._

Marci started things off, giving the bottle a deft spin. It landed on Frat Guy #2, who grinned as Marci crawled across the circle to kiss him. Foggy waited for a spark of jealousy and was surprised to feel nothing - well, nothing except vague interest, Marci was hot and so was Frat Guy #2 and Foggy wasn’t _dead_ inside or anything.

Frat Guy #2 landed on Julie, who looked pleased enough about it, though less so when her spin landed on the girl next to Matt instead of Matt himself. “I’ll spin again,” she offered, and reached for the bottle.

“That’s not how the game works,” Marci said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. “You landed on Rosa. You kiss Rosa.”

The frat guys cheered, and the high school kid looked like he might pass out. Julie blinked in surprise for a second before shrugging. “Okay,” she said.

She crawled across the circle, undulating in a way that Foggy suspected was mostly for Matt’s benefit, not that it would do Matt any good. It was doing Foggy some good, he had to admit - and hell, maybe Rosa too.

And…okay, yeah, Foggy was not one of those guys who made a habit of fetishizing girl-on-girl action, because other people’s sexuality was their own and not for his viewing pleasure and all that good stuff. But he shifted in his seat watching Julie and Rosa kiss just the same, Matt’s profile blurry in his peripheral vision.

Matt tilted his head a little towards the girls, then leaned back towards Foggy as Julie went back to her spot in the circle. “I assume that was a thrill for people with working eyes?”

“Not really a game designed for the blind, huh?” Foggy realized. “Sorry, buddy.”

“It’s better than Pictionary,” Matt said with a rueful grin as Rosa spun.

The bottle landed on Foggy. Well, all right then. Rosa had gorgeous ringlets that fell past the middle of her back and a dimple in her right cheek; Foggy wasn’t complaining. “Ma’am,” he said, and she giggled as they leaned past Matt to kiss.

When they pulled back Foggy shot a glance at Matt. He looked flushed, although it was hard to tell with the frat house’s shitty lighting; maybe he was drunker than Foggy thought.

Foggy reached for the bottle, and the only thing he let himself hope was that it didn’t land on Frat Guy #1, who was kind of a douche.

He spun.

It stopped.

“Oh, shit,” Julie breathed. Someone else giggled.

Foggy shifted and cleared his throat. Matt tilted his head towards him. “It’s your turn, right, Foggy? Who did it land on?”

Foggy licked his lips and tried to sound calm. “You,” he said. “It. It landed on you, Matt.”

“Oh,” said Matt. “Okay.”

That was it.

Foggy forced himself to not look around the circle. He knew the rumors about him and Matt - they were so close, they were always touching, Matt hated all of Foggy’s girlfriends, surely there was something going on? He didn’t need to see people he barely knew watching this like it was sweeps week on some sad college melodrama.

Besides, it was a stupid game, and barely titillating to anyone over fourteen. He’d peck Matt on the lips, just long enough to keep anyone from complaining that they’d cheated, and let Matt take his turn. It wasn’t going to _mean_ anything; it wasn’t going to ignite a heretofore hidden passion in Matt’s breast.

After all, spinning fantasies over what might come from a game of spin the bottle?

_Isn’t that a little high school, Fog?_

“At your ten o’clock,” Foggy said, and leaned in. He let Matt bring his hand up to find Foggy’s face, placing him; first gentle fingers poking Foggy’s jaw, then a warm palm curving around it. Callused. Where was Matt getting calluses?

Matt leaned in. Foggy closed his eyes.

Matt’s lips met his, warm and soft, for two seconds. Three. Four, and then Matt was sitting back, and Foggy was too, and it was over.

Just a kiss. Just a game. Just friends. It was over.

Foggy licked his lips and tasted beer. Some of the girls had been cheering, were still cheering, and Foggy made himself chuckle and elbow Matt. “Okay, Casanova, your turn. Bottle’s at your eleven, about two feet out.”

“…Thanks,” Matt said, a little delayed, like he’d been distracted by listening to something else. His mouth was so red. His cheeks were so pink.

He reached out for the bottle and Foggy tried to slow his own racing heartbeat. Matt’s surprisingly deft spin landed on the girl next to Marci - Foggy didn’t know her name. She came across the circle to meet Matt and he gave her the same kind of chaste, polite kiss he’d given Foggy - oh, and _there_ was the jealousy, swooping in Foggy’s chest, sick and hot.

Just _friends_ , he reminded himself furiously. The girl whose name Foggy didn’t know kissed Marci. Marci kissed a guy from their Political Philosophy class.

Matt tapped Foggy’s elbow.

“Foggy, can you help me find the bathroom?” he asked.

“Sure,” Foggy said, probably a little too quickly. He didn’t like this game anymore. “Back soon, guys.”

He stood up, let Matt reach for his elbow and led him out of the room. It was too crowded for Matt to use his cane so he stayed close, pressed against Foggy’s side and following Foggy’s quiet directives, and it was fine, Foggy was _fine_ , Matt was warm and close and that kiss had meant nothing and everything was _fine_ and as soon as Matt was deposited safely back at the game Foggy was going to drink himself into a stupor.

“Turning a left corner, bathroom’s right down this next hall,” Foggy said, and they swung into a narrow and surprisingly empty hallway. “Second door on the right, I’ll wait for - whoa!” he said as Matt suddenly swung him around by his elbow and pushed him up against the wall. “Matt, what - ”

Matt kissed him.

This was nothing like a game. There was nothing chaste about this kiss and nothing polite; Matt’s mouth burned against Foggy’s, wet and urgent, and Foggy opened up for him long before his brain managed to twig that yeah, this was _really happening._

Matt pulled back just far enough to pant against Foggy’s open mouth. Foggy’s fingers had dug their way into Matt’s lean, muscled shoulders, and he didn’t want to ever let go. “I didn’t,” Matt said. “I didn’t want to do that in front of everyone.”

“Yeah,” Foggy said because it was the only word he could manage to string together right now.

“I only played that stupid game because I wanted to land on you.” Matt ducked his head. He was the prettiest shade of pink Foggy had ever seen, and by now he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with alcohol.

“Yeah?” Foggy hadn’t meant it to come out so pathetically hopeful…but now Matt was smiling, so maybe that part was okay.

“Yeah,” Matt echoed.

Foggy smiled back, even though he knew Matt couldn’t see it. “You wanna get out of here?”

There was a world of promise behind Matt’s dark glasses. _“Yeah.”_

Foggy slid his hand down Matt’s arm to his wrist and tugged him towards the door. He could make his apologies to Marci for ducking out early tomorrow. As far as he was concerned, the night was just getting started.


	5. jealous kiss

Marci wears a perfume with notes of jasmine and black pepper. It’s expensive and quite nice, actually, distinctive without being jarring, insistent without being overpowering. Like everything else about Marci, it is a sign of exquisite taste.

Matt hates it.

It clings to Foggy’s skin, inside his clothes, rubbing off on his sheets even though Marci has a single so they always spend the night in her room. It tangles in his hair, to be released in a burst of scent every time he moves his head. Even after he showers it lingers, faint but detectable, an unmistakable reminder. _Hers. Not yours._

“Hey, watch out, leaning over you,” Foggy says, startling Matt from where he’s sitting on his bed and reading. Foggy reaches over Matt’s head to hit the light switch, which is awkwardly situated over Matt’s bed thanks to poor planning by whoever designed this dorm. The whole room smells like Foggy whether he’s in it or not, but as he stretches into Matt’s space, Matt catches a stronger wave of it - his fading deodorant, his laundry detergent, the salt-sweat of his skin. And on his throat, his face, under his shirt: black pepper and jasmine. _Hers._

“You okay?” Foggy asks.

“Hmm? Yeah, why?”

“I dunno, you just looked…angry, for a minute.”

Matt makes himself smile. “Nope. I’m fine.”

_Not yours._

He’s fine.

*

Karen wears a department store perfume, affordable but pretty, light with notes of honeysuckle at the top. Matt likes it, the way it clings to her pulse points like bright points of light, making it easy for him to “see” when she turns her head or gestures with her hands.

On Foggy, though, a strange alchemy happens. Matt catches a hint of honeysuckle on Foggy’s hand or shoulder from a light touch, or wrapped around him from a hug, and against the generic chemical-clean “unscented” scent of Foggy’s grooming products - he stopped using scented things when Matt made a comment about his sensitivity to them way back in freshman year - it twists and warps into something sour, something that clings to the back of Matt’s tongue like a hangover.

Or maybe it’s the way Foggy’s heartbeat picks up when he sees Karen, and the warmth in his voice when he speaks to her. She’s pretty, Matt can tell from how Foggy responds, and she’s brave, and she doesn’t take either of their crap, and if she has any sense at all she’ll snatch Foggy up and never let him go.

_Not yours._

Karen is a good and kind person. Karen doesn’t have the devil in her. Karen deserves someone like Foggy.

Foggy deserves someone like Karen.

_Never yours._

*

Sam Wilson mostly smells like leather and cordite and the hectic rush of being windblown when Matt’s around him and the other Avengers. Matt only knows he sometimes wears a cologne with hints of bergamot and cloves because it locks into the fibers of Foggy’s clothes after they hang out. Matt’s not entirely sure why it’s Sam and _Foggy_ who hang out when _Matt’s_ the one who fights side by side with the man, but it probably has something to do with Matt being fairly antisocial and Foggy’s company being an unmitigated delight. He befriended all of the Avengers instantly, but it’s Sam who he watches baseball games with, Sam who texts him things that make him laugh and that he doesn’t read out loud to Matt, Sam who worms his way into Foggy’s conversation day after day.

Sam is great, even if he does make Matt feel a little bit like an unpleasant cat Sam’s trying to get close enough to pet. He’s smart and he’s honest and of all the people Matt would choose to have at his back in a fight, he’s right near the top of the list.

And god knows, Foggy could use more friends. More reliable friends, honest friends, who never show up bleeding at his apartment in the middle of the night.

And if what Foggy and Sam have turns into something more than friends, well, Foggy could use that too.

But Matt still wrinkles his nose when he catches a whiff of bergamot on Foggy’s couch - or worse, Foggy’s unmistakable tangle of scents on _Sam_.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam whispers as the crouch on the roof, waiting for the signal to burst in on the nest of Hydra agents that have set up shop in Hell’s Kitchen. “You look like you’re smelling something someone stepped in. You picking something up?”

Just the faintest traces of Foggy’s shampoo and detergent and the blueberry muffins from his favorite coffee shop.

“No. It’s nothing,” Matt says.

_Not yours_ , he thinks furiously, and isn’t sure if it’s directed at Sam or himself.

*

“You are an idiot.”

Foggy’s voice is warm with affection, but also with anger, and Matt clenches his fists where they rest on his knees and takes it.

“Seriously, how did you manage to score that summa cum laude while being this much of a moron? Because I’m pretty sure anyone as smart as you’re supposed to be would know to call for _backup_ before facing _a dozen ninjas_. Especially when his private nurse is out of town visiting her cousin.” Foggy’s hands are gentle but it still stings when he applies the antiseptic to the cut across the back of Matt’s right shoulder, and Matt hisses in response. “Yeah, I’ll _bet_ that hurts. Hey, you know where they have painkillers, and sterile operating rooms, and _people with degrees in this shit?_ ”

“You know I can’t go to the hospital, Foggy.” The antiseptic is harsh in Matt’s nostrils, but he breathes it in gratefully, hoping it’ll burn out the other smells. Bergamot lingering in the fibers of the couch cushions. Honeysuckle on Foggy’s sleeve, in his hair.

And jasmine and black pepper, hot wax and red wine. Foggy was out at dinner when Matt called. Foggy rushed through the door ten minutes after Matt climbed through his window. Foggy isn’t back together with Marci, not officially, but he gets cagey when Karen asks about it, flushing warm enough that Matt can feel it from across the room, and his heart races.

_Not yours, not your, not yours._

His heart is racing now, but not happily.

“Well, don’t come haunting me if you get sepsis and die,” Foggy snaps. His fingers are warm as they press a bandage to Matt’s bare shoulder. The top of Matt’s suit is crumbled in a heap on the floor, sliced through in multiple places by katanas; he’s going to need to visit Melvin again.

“Sure,” Matt says. The jasmine is giving him a headache and it makes his temper even worse than usual. “You’ll probably be too busy, anyway.”

Foggy’s hands pause on Matt’s shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really.” Foggy tapes off the bandage and shifts on the couch to get a better look at Matt’s face. Matt turns towards him reluctantly; facing Foggy makes very little difference to him, conversation-wise, but Foggy’s troublingly good at deciphering Matt’s expressions. “Is there some time you’re thinking of when I blew you off that I’m not remembering? Because I left a very nice restaurant to play Florence Nightingale tonight.”

“Sorry I’m putting such a damper on your love life,” Matt grumbles sulkily. He knows he’s acting like a two-year-old, but he can’t help it.

“No,” Foggy says. “You don’t get to play the martyr here. I drop everything for you, okay? All the time! I lie to Karen for you, I blow off my family for you, I blow off Sam and Marci - ”

“Well, I’m sorry!” Matt snaps. “I’m _sorry_ about Karen. I’m _sorry_ about Sam. I’m _sorry_ about your magical night with Marci. Next time I’ll politely ask the ninjas to please only injure me from the front so that I can patch up my own wounds!” He snatches up the discarded pieces of his suit off the floor and heads for the window.

“Excuse me, we’re not done!” Foggy grabs the wrist of his uninjured arm and tugs. It’s not nearly enough force to keep Matt from leaving if he really wants to, but he stops immediately and turns into it, rather than risk hurting Foggy. “Why the hell are _you_ mad? I’m the one who left a date and came home to a bloody lunatic giving me an attitude.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not mad!”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Because all you’ve been doing since you got home is yell at me because I got in the way of you and _Marci!_ ” Matt snaps.

“What are you - that’s not - what the _hell_ , Matt!” Foggy says. “I’m mad because you were reckless, _again_ , and you nearly got yourself killed, _again_ , and there’s no _need_ to. You don’t have to be such a fucking cowboy, you can call the Avengers for things like this. I know Sam’s in town - ”

“Of course you do,” Matt mutters before he can stop himself.

“Okay, now what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Foggy says.

“Nothing. I’m going.” Matt pulls his wrist out of Foggy’s grasp and heads for the window again.

Foggy grabs him again and tugs harder this time, not enough to hurt but enough to pull him into Foggy’s space. Matt smells lipstick on his cheek. “No, we’re discussing this. You’ve got a problem with Marci, now you’ve got a problem with Sam? Why? They’re my _friends_ \- they’re _your_ friends, they’ve _helped_ you and now you’re giving me shit for hanging out with them? You’ve gotta _give_ me something here, Matt!”

His hand around Matt’s wrist is warm. His voice is tight with angry and hurt and his heart is racing and there’s jasmine on his skin.

_Not yours._

“Matt!”

_Not yours not yours not yours…_

Matt kisses him.

Hard and hot and it’s not nice and what is he _doing_ , Foggy’s not _his_ and he deserves better than Matt’s awkward, angry fumbling at him, he deserves _everything_. Matt unlatches his fingers from Foggy’s shirt and makes himself step back, and then they’re just standing there, breathing hard, hearts racing out of step with each other, and Matt knows Foggy’s staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, when Foggy doesn’t speak. “I never meant to…”

“Jesus Christ, Matt,” Foggy says, and steps in close. His thumb brushes the edge of Matt’s jaw, and from the tremble in it Matt thinks he might have been wrong about who Foggy belongs to all this time. “You should have led with that.”

*

Foggy still comes home from the office smelling like honeysuckle, but then so does Matt. It’s hard to pick up under the scents Matt leaves on Foggy: his favorite brand of shaving cream when Foggy spends the night at his place; Matt’s shampoo tangled in Foggy’s hair; the homey smell of Matt’s bed lingering under Foggy’s clothes.

It goes both ways, too. Matt reaches up to push his hair off his forehead and there’s the faint trace of Foggy’s mouth against his skin, coffee and mint, the kisses he pressed to reward the pulse beneath it for racing.

“Why are you smiling?” Foggy asks, slouched next to him on the couch where they’re ignoring a movie.

Matt presses closer, rests his head on Foggy’s shoulder, and breathes deep. “I’m yours.”


	6. a kiss that was never given

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did another meme, so: more kisses! Or in this case, lack thereof.

_“You’re not gonna kiss me.”_

_“I’m feeling a little something.”_

Foggy had grown used to comments like that from Matt over the years - suggestive, flirtatious, even challenging.

_“You’re strong.”_

_“Sounds like we’re getting married.”_

He’d gotten good at batting them back over the net, waiting to see what Matt would do once the ball was back in his court, to belabor the metaphor. Waiting to see if he’d ever stop playing the game.

He didn’t know, then, that Matt could hear his heart race every time he made a teasing comment. He hadn’t known that Matt could smell the sweat on his palms when they hugged, could probably feel the way Foggy’s heart surged against his ribcage like it wanted to leap into Matt’s chest instead. Could hear the lie in every one of Foggy’s jokes.

He hadn’t known that a year later would leave Nelson and Murdock shuttered and Matt and Foggy not speaking.

In retrospect, it was a good thing that Foggy had never been brave enough to take Matt up on his facetious offer. At the time, he’d taken comfort in the uncertainty, in the possibility that Matt really meant it, that he was playing this game of chicken with Foggy on purpose and that someday one of them would snap and finally - finally - 

But Matt had known how Foggy felt the whole time and had never made a move, and so he couldn’t have felt the same. All the ways Foggy had embarrassed himself in front of Matt, at least he’d never done that. It would have ruined their friendship for sure.

On the other hand, Foggy thinks as he surveys his fancy new apartment with its huge empty rooms and its huge empty bed, it’s not like they have a friendship anymore anyway. If he’d called Matt’s bluff…well, at least he’d have gotten to kiss Matt once before it all went to shit.

Oh well. He supposes it doesn’t make a difference either way.


	7. underwater kiss

“I realize this has already been established, but you are a weirdo,” Foggy says when Matt comes up for air.

Matt shakes his wet bangs out of his eyes and grins. “Why now?”

Foggy leans back, lets the water support him as he floats. “Item the first: you won’t go to the beach with me, but you make me sneak into a private pool after hours.”

“City beaches are noisy and smell funny and this pool’s owners are out of town all summer. Plus if someone else was around they might wonder how I can navigate so well underwater.”

“How can you?” Foggy asks curiously. “Nothing to smell.”

“No, but sound travels better.”

“Ah.” Foggy goes back to floating. “Item the second: you make me break into a pool despite not actually owning a bathing suit.”

Matt grins. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Exhibitionist. Item the third: all you want to do is sit underwater until I start to worry. It’s like you’re trying to give me a heart attack.”

“I told you,” Matt says, swimming closer. “Sound travels better underwater.” Underwater Foggy’s heartbeat reverberates louder and farther than it does in air, bouncing off the walls of the pool and back to Matt’s waiting ears. Underwater every movement Foggy makes is magnified, sending infinite ripples through the water to caress Matt’s skin, leaving him cradled and suspended in Foggy’s touch. Underwater everything outside the pool fades away, the screams and the sirens and the general clamor until it’s just him and Foggy, alone, together, free.

He ducks underwater, then hooks his fingers into the back of Foggy’s trunks - Foggy had refused to join Matt in skinny dipping in case there turned out to be a night watchman or something - and tugs gently. Foggy gets the message and sinks beneath the surface as well, turning to face Matt, and Matt shifts forward to press his lips against Foggy’s.

It’s not like their usual kisses. Matt can’t smell Foggy at all, and the chlorine overpowers almost all of his taste. But he feels the bubbles of the little exhale Foggy lets out through his nose bursting against his skin; he feels the warmth of Foggy radiating out through the water; he feels the thrum of Foggy’s pulse beating, beating, beating over every inch of him.

He lets go and surfaces, and Foggy follows.

“All right, Murdock,” Foggy says, and Matt just knows he’s smiling. “You might have a point here.”


	8. a kiss given to the wrong person

Foggy will insist to his dying day that he does not, in fact, squeak out loud when the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen lands in the alley between him and the two knife-wielding lunatics who’ve muscled him in there.

Luckily, he’ll have a lot of time for said insisting, because thanks to the Devil, his dying day is not today. Honestly, Foggy doesn’t really see what happens - all he knows is that the Devil moves very fast and suddenly Foggy’s attackers are unconscious on the ground and the Devil is hunched over them, panting like a rabid dog.

“Uh,” Foggy says, even though he’s not one hundred percent sure he’s not about to end up bleeding on the ground himself. “Thanks? Mr…Devil. Sir.”

The Devil startles. “Ff - ” he says without turning around, and then, “Mr. Nelson. Are you all right?”

“You know who I am?” Foggy asks. That’s…alarming.

“I make it a point to know everyone of importance in Hell’s Kitchen.” He’s straightened up, but he still hasn’t turned around.

Foggy blinks. “I’m important?”

“If you’re going after Fisk you are.” The Devil waves a hand at his unconscious victims. “Why do you think these men targeted you?”

Foggy takes a step back and tries to discreetly reach for his phone. “Who says I’m going after Fisk?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Nelson. Your enemy is my enemy.” The Devil turns his head, just enough for Foggy to see the edge of a stubbled cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Who - who says I’m _afraid?_ ” Foggy asks, and now he can see that cheek curving into a smile. Asshole.

“Get home safe, Mr. Nelson,” the Devil says, and before Foggy can say anything else, he’s around the corner, melting into the darkness.

*

Karen peppers Foggy with questions about his encounter with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen the next day, but Matt is tight-lipped and silent. “I told you not to go after Fisk so blatantly,” he says before hunching over his refreshable Braille display, brow furrowed. Foggy watches him from the corner of his eye and wonders when Matt started carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

*

“It really isn’t safe for you to be walking alone at night,” the Devil says as he materializes at Foggy’s elbow.

Foggy jumps about a foot. “Gah! What did - where did - yeah, because _nutjobs in masks_ are apparently _stalking_ me!”

“I’m just concerned,” the Devil says.

“Why?” Foggy asks, squinting. “You don’t even know me. Shouldn’t you be following Karen around? You’ve already saved her once. Or Matt, Matt needs looking after more than I do. I assume you know about Matt,” he finishes dryly.

For some reason, the Devil smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I know about Matt.” He tilts his head at Foggy. “What makes you think he’s more vulnerable than you are?”

“Oh, don’t - it’s not the blind thing,” Foggy says. “It’s that he doesn’t know how to back down from a fight. Do you know how many muggings I’ve talked my way out of? Matt would just get his Irish up.”

“ _How_ many muggings?” the Devil asks, sounding suddenly dangerous.

Foggy’s not sure why the Devil cares so much if some nineteen-year-old with a switchblade lifts his wallet, but he’s oddly touched. Well, touched and annoyed. “The point is, I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe I like keeping an eye on you,” the Devil says, and is gone before Foggy can figure out how to respond to that.

*

“Come on, Matt, it’s Friday night, come out for drinks with us,” Foggy wheedles, tapping Matt’s ankle with his foot from his perch half-sitting, half-leaning on Matt’s desk.

“Sorry,” Matt says without turning his face towards Foggy. He doesn’t need to, of course, to be paying attention, but he usually does for the sake of appearing polite. “Too much to do.”

“Buddy. You realize that excuse doesn’t work on someone who knows exactly how many clients we _don’t_ have, right?”

Matt purses his lips and doesn’t say anything. There’s a yellowing bruise around his right eye socket, leading up towards his temple. He told Foggy he walked into a door. Foggy’s not sure why Matt’s suddenly gotten much clumsier than he’s ever been before, but he suspects it’s part and parcel with why Matt suddenly won’t hang out with him or tell him anything or smile without a ridiculous amount of coaxing.

“Hey,” Foggy says gently, and now Matt tilts his face up to him. “You know you can talk to me, right? About…about whatever.”

“I know,” Matt says unconvincingly.

“It’s just that I worry about you sometimes,” Foggy says before he can catch himself, and Matt frowns. “ _Not_ because of the blind thing. Just because…” Because Foggy inherited a feral little goblin child as a roommate and has spent the past ten years teaching it how to have feelings. “…you tend to bottle things up. Everyone needs an outlet.”

It’s funny - he had a similar conversation about Matt with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen the other night, but he gave the Devil a different reason. He supposes he’ll never really run out of reasons to worry about Matt.

He is _probably_ emotionally overinvested in Matt’s…everything, but hey, that’s nothing new.

“I have an outlet,” Matt says, lips doing the little twitchy half-smirk thing they do when he thinks he’s effectively hiding a secret.

Right - the boxing thing. But Matt’s never actually talked about it, and Foggy’s not going to push it. “Sure,” he says instead. “I just…I want to make sure you know I’m always here. That’s all.”

Matt’s fingers come off his Braille display and he ducks his face so that Foggy can’t read his expression. Foggy waits, heart hammering, afraid he’s somehow said something wrong - or worse, that he’s given himself away.

After a minute, though, Matt looks back up again, and he’s smiling. “Yeah, I know, you sap,” he teases. “You don’t need to get all touchy-feely about it, jeez, Karen can hear us.”

“Yes, and you two are very cute,” Karen calls through the open door of Matt’s office.

“All right, all right, see if I try to have a serious conversation with you again,” Foggy grouses, standing up. “So that’s a no on drinks tonight?”

“That is a no. Sorry,” Matt says, still smiling. But Foggy doesn’t miss the way the smile drops off Matt’s face before Foggy’s turned fully away.

*

“Someone’s had a good night,” the Devil says as Foggy makes his tipsy way home from walking Karen to her door. “You smell like a distillery.”

“Hey, you punch people in the nose professionally, don’t judge me,” Foggy says, leveling a wobbling finger at him. He’s not even surprised that the Devil’s shown up, it’s become such a frequent occurrence. “Besides, I have _earned_ this.”

“It’s more of a hobby than a profession,” the Devil says, sounding amused.

“Yeah?” Foggy says. “You got a day job? What is it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the Devil says. Foggy supposes that’s fair enough. He can’t exactly picture this guy behind a desk. “So what’d you do to earn your libations?”

“Libations. Heh. That’s what me and Matt used to say when we got wasted in college,” Foggy says, and then, “Fucking _Matt_ ,” too loud.

The Devil tenses, probably because Foggy is shouting drunkenly on the street. “Trouble in paradise?”

“He’s just…I don’t…I’m not _stupid_ ,” Foggy says, and the Devil gets somehow even more tense. “I know he’s not happy. I know there’s something wrong. But he won’t _talk_ to me.”

The Devil’s silent for a long moment before he says, “Maybe he doesn’t feel like he can.”

“Well, then, he’s an idiot.”

The Devil laughs. “No argument here.”

Foggy sighs. They’ve reached his stoop, but part of him doesn’t want to go in. It’s probably weird that he likes talking to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, but he’ll chalk it up to being drunk. “I just want to help.”

“I’m sure you do, just by being there,” the Devil says. “By being you.”

Foggy stops on the first step leading up to his door and turns around to look at the Devil. “How do you know?”

The Devil smiles, and for a moment he’s almost as beautiful as Matt. “Because I know you.”

He’s walking away before Foggy can think of a response.

*

So, okay, yes, he’s basically in love with Matt. Has been basically in love with him since practically the first _week_ , when he was still trying to get used to that dorky smile and killer ass and boundless determination to fix all the world’s ills.

It doesn’t really matter. That is, it _matters_ , but Matt doesn’t feel the same, so Foggy’s feelings are Foggy’s to deal with, and that’s that.

It’s hard to remember that sometimes, though. Especially when Matt comes into the office with another livid, purple-red bruise high on his cheekbone and moving like an old man.

“Matty, what _happened?_ ” Foggy asks, reaching for Matt’s face before he can remind himself to keep his touches platonic.

But Matt lets him, lets Foggy tilt Matt’s head with gentle fingers on his chin so that he can inspect the bruise more carefully - even lets him remove his glasses to see the whole injury. The skin is raw and split at the center, meaning it definitely bled at one point.

“I walked into a door,” Matt says.

“That’s what you said last time,” Foggy replies. “Wanna try again?”

Matt doesn’t say anything, and Foggy sighs. “Is it Hottie McBurnerphone?”

“What?” Matt asks, looking genuinely startled.

“It’s just, the last time you kept showing up all bruised and not telling me anything was…” _Elektra_. “Sophomore year. If these are sexy bruises you can say so, I won’t judge you or anything. And if they’re not…” Foggy can’t help brushing his thumb beneath Matt’s cheekbone, just over the edge of the bruise. “I’ll help you, Matt. Anything you need, anytime. All you have to do is ask.”

Matt’s eyes flutter closed, and now it’s his turn to sigh. “I know,” he says, very softly. “I appreciate it, Foggy. I really do.”

Foggy swallows. Matt’s just - just _standing_ there, face tilted into Foggy’s touch, lips parted, and it suddenly feels like they’re at the precipice of something, just waiting to see which way they tilt over. Foggy opens his mouth, leans in, not sure what he’s about to do or say -

\- and Matt suddenly startles away, pulling back out of reach and snagging his glasses out of Foggy’s other hand on the way. A second later, Foggy hears Karen’s heels click on the landing outside.

“We should get to work,” Matt says, the tiniest tremble in his voice. He’s already turning away.

“Yeah,” Foggy says, but he stands there numbly for a moment too long, long enough to miss Karen’s greeting and for her to ask him what’s wrong. Which is yet another question he doesn’t really have an answer to.

*

For all that the Devil’s been shadowing him home, Foggy hasn’t been attacked since that first time, which is part of why he’s so unprepared when someone grabs him from behind and tries to drag him into an alley. He yells instinctively, and a hand clamps over his mouth; another hand twists his arm behind his back hard enough to hurt.

Two men are waiting in the alley, besides the one holding him. “So, Mr. Nelson…” one starts - and then the Devil’s on him, a dark blur slamming into him and then the other guy so fast that the second one starts falling before the first one fully hits the ground.

The guy holding Foggy tightens his grip. “Don’t - ” he starts to say, and the Devil pulls some kind of wooden club from his thigh holster and hurls it past Foggy’s head. It hits the guy holding him with a sickening crack, and Foggy stumbles forward.

The Devil catches him. He’s hot, and breathing hard. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Foggy struggles to breathe, and then to speak without crying. “Yeah,” he says, “thanks,” and then he just holds on, and the Devil lets him.

After a long moment, Foggy steps back. “I’ll walk you home,” is all the Devil says, and Foggy’s somehow more grateful for what he doesn’t say than the rescue itself.

They head down the street, side by side. The Devil’s moving like something hurts him; Foggy doesn’t think any of his would-be attackers got a chance to land a blow, so this must be an older injury. “Are you okay?” he asks, and the Devil startles and turns towards him. “Looks like you hurt your side. What happened?”

“I made a mistake,” is all the Devil says, and Foggy can only nod.

At Foggy’s door they stop. Foggy’s not sure what to say. “Thanks,” he finally repeats. “For both times.”

“You’re friends with Sergeant Mahoney, right?” the Devil asks. “He’s honest. I don’t trust the rest of the force, but him…you should bring him in on this. Have him keep an eye on you and Ms. Page. I can’t always be there.”

“You’ve been there both times it counted,” Foggy points out.

“I’ve been lucky,” the Devil contradicts. “And I don’t…Foggy. I can’t let them hurt you. I couldn’t bear it.”

What little Foggy can see of his face is tormented. Foggy puts a hand on his arm and feels him flinch. “Why do you care so much?” he asks. “You don’t even know me.”

The Devil shakes his head and says nothing. And Foggy…

He knows, even as he’s doing it, that he shouldn’t. He knows it’s adrenalin and fear and misplaced gratitude. He knows he just wants someone to _touch_ , to hold onto something hot and know he’s alive. He knows he’s lonely, and has been for a very long time.

He knows it’s because he can’t have Matt.

But he leans forward and turns the Devil’s face towards him and kisses him.

He feels a strong grip on his wrist, a gloved hand in his hair. The Devil kisses like Foggy imagines his namesake might, fierce and hungry and untameable. Foggy’s just growing breathless when the Devil suddenly jerks back, out of Foggy’s reach. What little Foggy can see of his face is red.

“I…you…” The Devil’s chest heaves. Foggy _wants_ him, wants him with a reckless desire that might almost, almost make him forget Matt, if he could just indulge it. “I’m sorry.”

“I kissed _you_ ,” Foggy points out.

The Devil’s hand lifts as if to touch his mouth, then drops again. “Yes,” he says. “You…oh, Foggy, you deserve so much better.”

“What.” Foggy swallows. “What if better doesn’t want me back?”

The Devil flinches again like Foggy hit him, then visibly shakes it off. “Impossible,” he says.

He takes a step forward, but when he kisses Foggy, it’s just on the forehead. “Stay safe, Foggy,” he says, and it sounds like goodbye.

He turns and walks away. This time Foggy watches him go until the night swallows him up, and when he whispers, “You too,” he can’t help feeling like the Devil hears him, even though he’s well out of reach.


End file.
